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For all his protestations, John knows that Henry Knight is not feeling well at all.
"This is good news," babbles Henry, collapsing onto his sofa once they return to his house. "I'm not crazy. There is a hound." His voice is shaking. So are his hands. "There is."
"It's fine, Henry," says John following him into the room and turning on the lights. "You can calm down now."
"This is definitely good news, John. It's... It's..." Henry runs his hands over his face. "Sherlock saw it too. I know he did."
"Ok," says John, heading for the kitchen. "Ok. I'll get you something to help you sleep."
"Wait. John." Henry turns to him, eyes wide in a pale face. "Would you er..." Henry licks his lips. "Will you stay?"
John takes pity on him. "Henry," he says, "you don't need me to stay. Seriously. It's fine. We're not on the moor now. Just get some rest and in the morning..."
"No." Henry rubs a shaking hand on his knee. "I don't mean..." He looks at John. "I'm not scared... Or. Well. Well... I am scared. Ok. But I don't mean that. I mean..." He gives a tentative smile. "Would you like to stay? With me?"
John's stomach lurches as he gets an inkling of where this might be going. "Henry..."
"You're... You're an attractive man, John," Henry's gaze flicks to the floor, "and I wondered if, you know. I thought you might like to..."
"Henry," John stops him mid-sentence. "I'm... Thank you. I'm flattered. But I'm not gay."
"Oh." Henry's face falls. "Oh. I thought... Well. It doesn't matter."
"It's fine," says John, and heads off to the kitchen, feeling rather embarrassed about the whole thing. He feels bad for dashing Henry's hopes like that, because Henry is a genuinely nice guy, but John just isn't gay and there's nothing he can do about it. Even if a treacherous part of John's brain protests that his sexuality is hardly as clear cut as he first thought it was; not if the confusing almost-crush on Sherlock that's been troubling him recently is anything to go by.
But. Well. That's as maybe. Sherlock aside, John's not gay. And even with Sherlock, it's a guilty fantasy that John would never admit to anybody; certainly not to Sherlock himself. John's heard far too many horror stories about friends who've entangled themselves with their flatmates for that. No, Sherlock's friendship is worth far too much to risk it just for a bunch of confusing feelings.
Hah! As if Sherlock would even be interested in the first place though. Henry Knight might well be gay, but Sherlock's hardly going to ask John to spend the night with him.
***
When John returns to the pub, he finds Sherlock in the bar sitting beside the fire. John joins him and tells Sherlock how Henry's doing, resolutely neglecting to mention anything about the final part of their conversation.
It's only when John's halfway through that he realises that Sherlock's not quite... normal.
"Henry's right," says Sherlock, and it almost looks as if he's shaking. "I saw it too."
"What?" John frowns at him. "Sherlock..."
"I saw it, John. Out there in the hollow." And Sherlock is definitely shaking now. He turns to John, wild-eyed. "A gigantic hound."
"Hold on..." starts John, but Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, pressing shaking hands to his face. It almost looks as if he's having a panic attack, which is crazy. This is Sherlock for God's sake.
Concern rising, John tries to calm him down and explain things rationally, but Sherlock just breathes faster and stares at the fire.
"Look..." says John.
Sherlock whips his head round to stare at him. "John," Sherlock's hands clutch at the arms of his chair, "we need to have sex."
It takes John a moment to process the words. "You... What?"
"We should have sex. Right now." Sherlock bares his teeth. "We don't have a double bed upstairs, but we can improvise by pushing the two singles together." He picks up his drink and downs it in one, tipping his head back.
"Wait," says John, floundering as Sherlock's throat flashes in front of him. "You want us to...?"
"God, John," Sherlock snarls. "Are you deaf? Do you not understand what I'm asking? We need to have sex!"
Around them, the pub goes suddenly quiet, and John feels himself flush bright red.
"Sherlock," John hisses, "can you not be...?" He glances around as people slowly return to their own conversations. "Can you not be a bit more discreet?"
"Oh, what does it matter?" Sherlock snorts and runs a shaking hand over his mouth. "They're too busy with their own boring lives to really care."
John stares and doesn't know what to make of anything. Sherlock's still shaking, still breathing heavily; John had originally thought it was fear but now he's not so sure. It doesn't make sense though; he didn't think Sherlock ever... Good God, John's suddenly got all his temptations laid out in front of him, and it's not normal. It's not normal at all.
"Are you ok?" asks John, trying to ignore the way his own heart is pounding. "You're acting..."
"There's nothing wrong with me," snarls Sherlock. "Do you need me to prove it?"
"No..." starts John, but Sherlock's already launched into a series of deductions about the people around them that's as terrifying as it is impressive.
"See?" says Sherlock when he's finished, eyes narrowed at John. "I am fine. Now come upstairs and have sex with me."
God, John would be worryingly tempted if it weren't for the fact that Sherlock is nowhere near as 'fine' as he says he is. "Sherlock," says John, "you're obviously a bit worked up. So I think it's best if..."
"Of course I'm worked up." Sherlock glares at John. "I need to have sex. With you. I'm so aroused I..." He presses his lips together. "I want you, John. I could have sex with anyone in this pub, but I want you."
Oh Jesus. John tries not to be affected by how adamant Sherlock seems. Getting propositioned by Henry had been flattering. Getting propositioned by Sherlock is... "Sherlock," says John. "Thank you. For asking. But do you really think this is a good idea? We're friends. I'd hate to see that ruined by us taking things in another direc..."
Sherlock sneers. "I don't have friends."
Fuck it. Or maybe their friendship has been ruined already.
John clenches his jaw and leaves.
***
Outside, the torchlight is still flashing up on the moor. Whoever was sending out that morse code is still doing it. Glad for an excuse to leave the pub for a while, John decides to go check it out.
Unfortunately, it's only once he's walked all the way to the source of the light that he realises it's not morse code at all.
Jesus Christ. Without breaking his stride, John turns back the way he came and leaves the people in their cars to it. He's heard that this sort of thing happens, of course, and if people want to go dogging, then that's fine with him. But, honestly. Is everyone up for sex this evening? Was there a memo that John's missed?
More than anything, he's angry with himself that he'd thought he was onto a lead when all he'd actually found was a bizarre sexual encounter that he'd rather not be involved in.
It's then, just when he's busy berating himself, that John receives a text:
Come back to the pub
S
To talk to Sherlock? Not a chance. John's still annoyed at Sherlock and he definitely doesn't want to explain his latest attempts at investigation. He types in a reply:
WHY SHOULD I?
Sherlock doesn't answer that. At least, not immediately. About half a minute later, though, John receives a picture message.
It's not like Sherlock to send a photo. John's in half a mind to delete it straight away, but he's just curious enough to open it instead. When he does, the photograph is dark, so he can't quite make out what...
Oh good God. When John realises what it is, he nearly drops his phone. To think Sherlock would... John has never seen that part of Sherlock's anatomy before and, to be honest, he never thought he would; even if he has wondered about it, says that treacherous part of his brain, late at night, sometimes. Christ, and it seems like Sherlock wasn't lying when he said he was aroused.
For a moment, John just stares. To see how hard Sherlock is; how the head is exposed, glistening. Fuck. Fuck. John deletes the photo without thinking about it.
He and Sherlock are friends, despite what Sherlock says, and John's not going to risk that for one night. Not when Sherlock's all worked up and acting strange anyway, and certainly not while John's still angry at him, which he is. Probably.
John takes a deep breath in the cold night air and tries to clear the image from his mind.
Right. He'll go back to the pub because, to be honest, there's nowhere else to go. But John's definitely not going there to see Sherlock. It looks like Sherlock's probably up in their room, so John can stay down in the bar for a while to ignore him, and if Sherlock's in the bar, well, John can just ignore him anyway.
***
Back at the pub, it seems as if Sherlock is, thankfully, not in the bar after all. John takes a moment to enjoy being back inside in the warm, then goes and orders himself a pint. He has every intention of drinking until he forgets everything.
It's a spot of good luck, really, that John gets talking to a woman who turns out to be Henry Knight's therapist. While Sherlock's off sulking, or... well, whatever he's doing, John's down here actually doing a bit of investigation. And if John doesn't manage to find anything out, he's happy to try his luck anyway. Dr Mortimer is pretty, and enjoyable to talk to, and John's probably more aroused than he'd like to admit.
Yes, going home with a beautiful woman, or, well, with any woman, could be just the ticket that John needs tonight.
Unfortunately, it's just when Dr Mortimer's about to share what she knows about Henry's father that Dr Frankland barges in and ruins everything. Before John knows what's happened, Dr Mortimer has already gone.
Well then. John was going to drink himself silly tonight. Looks like he's just going to have to do it on his own.
***
Of course, John had forgotten that he's in the middle of nowhere rather than in London. The bar is barely open for another hour before last orders are called and the place shuts up for the night. It feels far too early; John doesn't even get a chance to chat up any other women before he's forced to leave.
By the time John heads back upstairs to his and Sherlock's room, he's more miserable than ever and only tipsy at best.
It takes him a while to find his key and fit it into the lock, but he tries to be quiet about it because Sherlock's probably already asleep in there.
Fumbling, John opens the door, and promptly realises that Sherlock isn't asleep; he's not asleep at all.
The bedroom door is slammed shut as soon as John's inside and John is crowded back against it. Sherlock's shirt is untucked, his sleeves rolled up, hair tangled, eyes glittering.
"John, you've taken ages. I thought you were coming back immediately."
Oh God. John's not prepared for this. Sherlock presses closer and snakes a trembling hand around John's wrist. Suddenly, John finds himself remembering that photograph and, oh God oh God. Sherlock smells of sex and that doesn't help at all. A glance at the rumpled covers on Sherlock's bed suggests just what Sherlock's been doing up here while John was downstairs drinking.
"Sherlock," says John, but it comes out as little more than a croak. The fingers around his wrist tighten, and John knows exactly where they've been, and he doesn't know if he's too drunk or not nearly drunk enough.
"Well?" Sherlock's staring at him. "Are you going to have sex with me now? I sent you that picture. That's foreplay, isn't it?"
John groans. Why did he decide this would be a bad idea? Hasn't he been fantasising about this for months?
"Sherlock." John breathes out carefully. "We can't do this. We're good friends and I don't want to jeopardise..."
"Oh, for God's sake." Sherlock huffs loudly and wrinkles his nose. "I don't have friends and I don't need friends. All I need is a sexual partner." And he leans forward and presses their lips together.
Jesus. Oh. God. For a moment, John's brain short-circuits, because Sherlock is kissing him. Christ. And Sherlock's not shy about it either; his tongue forcing its way into John's mouth, slick and smooth and...
John almost forgets himself, but not quite. He puts his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and shoves him away.
"Sherlock," says John, taking a breath. "Not good." He wipes his mouth with a hand. "You can't just..."
"But you want it too." Sherlock crowds him back against the door again. "I can see that you do. Am I going to have to list all the..."
"No," says John, as firmly as he can manage, trying not to wonder just what Sherlock's going to deduce about him. "No. We're not doing this, Sherlock. Trust me. You don't want to."
Sherlock snarls. "You don't know what I want, John." He turns and stalks across the room, scrubbing his hands through his hair and shouting a noise of frustration. "I've been so...! I'm going crazy!" He turns and points at John. "You don't understand what this is like. I need to have sex, John!"
Christ. In John's fantasies, Sherlock is never this difficult, or this eager. "I don't care, Sherlock." John clenches his jaw. "If you're horny, go and take care of it by yourself. It works perfectly fine."
"No it doesn't." Sherlock sits his bed with a bounce, and tugs open the buttons of his shirt. John's heart jumps to his throat as Sherlock takes off the shirt and tosses it to one side, but, thankfully, Sherlock quickly pulls on his pyjama top in its place. "I've tried it already," spits Sherlock, "and it's not enough."
John tries not to watch as Sherlock tugs off his trousers and underwear before pulling on his pyjama bottoms. The flash of Sherlock's cock is almost too much to bear; he's still obviously aroused, flushed and dark and... God. John's not gay. So why does he have to like Sherlock? Why does he have to be drunk enough that he's almost tempted?
"Well," says John, trying to keep his voice steady, "you're going to have to make do."
Sherlock throws himself onto his bed and kicks his feet out, crossing his ankles. With a huff, he folds his arms and glares at the ceiling.
So, it looks like Sherlock's going to have a sulk, then. Good. It means that John will be able to get some sleep. If he's able to will his own erection away, that is.
Following Sherlock's lead, John heads into the en-suite bathroom to get ready for bed and quickly changes into his own pyjamas. When he comes out, Sherlock hasn't moved.
Fine. Good. Without a word, John gets into his own bed and turns out the light.
***
For fifteen minutes, John thinks that everything's going to be fine. He's still worked up himself, but he's slowly, slowly, drifting off to sleep, when he hears it.
From the other bed, there comes the very distinct noise of skin on skin.
John's chest tightens and he feels his whole face flush up red. Is Sherlock really... Here? Has he not even bothered to go into the bathroom? John hopes to God that he's just imagining things, but even if he is, it's left him rock hard and almost aching anyway.
There's the sound of a swallow from the other bed, followed by a thick, heavy inhale.
Shit shit shit. It's not just John's imagination, is it? But he doesn't dare to look over and check. Instead, John tries his hardest to burrow further beneath his covers while appearing like he's actually asleep and not listening.
The noise of skin on skin grows louder and then stops, suddenly. There follows a brief clunking, like something's being picked up or put down on the bedside table and then silence. John is just about to take a breath in relief, when the noise starts up again. But it's not skin on skin this time. Oh no. It's got a wet, squelching quality to it now, and it's so filthy that John's heart is pounding in his ears.
Lubricant, thinks John hysterically. He's actually got lubricant over there.
Sherlock swallows again, breathes louder, and actually moans a little on the exhale.
For a panicked second, John worries that if this keeps up, he's going to come without even touching himself at all. He's already so hard it hurts.
"Oh, God," breathes Sherlock quietly and John has to bite his lip to stop himself from making a noise.
It's too much. The wet, squelching noise continues at a languid pace, interspersed with occasional heavy breaths. John squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to sleep, but all he can see is that photo, with Sherlock hard and glistening and begging John to have sex with him.
Christ. John can't help himself any more. He looks up, just slightly, and glances over at the other bed.
But what he sees is not what he was expecting at all. For some reason John had thought that Sherlock would be buried beneath his own bedcovers, trying to do this with some measure of privacy. But Sherlock's not. No, Sherlock's right on top of the covers, spread out shamelessly and easy to see, even in the faint light from the window. His pyjama bottoms are around his ankles and his knees are spread as wide as they will go. One hand is working his cock with long, languorous strokes, and the other is clutched, trembling, in his hair.
The hand on Sherlock's cock makes a complicated, twisting sort of motion, and Sherlock's head presses back into the pillow, his throat bobbing as he swallows again and licks his lips.
Fuck it. Fuck. John's got his own had in his own pyjama bottoms before he even knows it. God, he is too drunk, but hopefully Sherlock will be too busy to notice, and John's so hard that even the first brush of fingers against his cock is making his toes curl.
Sherlock moans again, teeth catching on his lower lip, and John doesn't need any of the lube that Sherlock's using, because he's actually leaking already. John trails his fingers up to the head of his cock, works his foreskin against it slickly, and tries not to let his next breath out as a hiss.
God. Sherlock's other hand snakes down from his hair to push up his pyjama top, fingers running across his chest then smoothing over his waist. His back arches as the hand on his cock focuses on the base of it, his hips rocking, breath ragged between his lips.
And John finds that he's mimicking Sherlock's strokes without even realising it. The pleasure of it is already coiling dangerously inside him, and he's going to come soon, which is probably a good thing, yes, but a frantic part of John is not sure he wants this to be over.
Sherlock licks his lips again and clenches his teeth as the hand on his cock speeds up, the slick noise of it shamelessly loud in the small room.
Too much. Too much. John does the same, the hot, wet feel of it dragging wonderfully through him. He tries, desperately, to control his breathing and almost succeeds, but then Sherlock gasps out, "John."
Oh Christ. For a heady moment, John thinks that Sherlock's fantasising about him, and John's whole body tenses because, God, he's almost there. But then Sherlock turns his head, his eyes meeting John's in the dim light of the window, desperate pleasure written across his face, and, Christ, John is coming, already, and he has to bite his lip and dip his head as he makes a mess of the bedsheets beneath him because fuck, fuck, fuck. Jesus. Fuck.
It's only once he's stopped ejaculating that the shame of it really hits John. The noises from the other bed have stopped, which suggests that John wasn't the only one who's just finished, but he can't bring himself to look. He's too drunk and that did not just happen, and Jesus, what has he done?
John screws his eyes tight shut, burrows further beneath his bedcovers, and pretends, against everything, that he really has been asleep all this time.
***
The next morning, John's the first to wake up. He's got a mild hangover, a crick in his neck, and a mass of guilt seeping through his stomach.
A look across the room shows that Sherlock's under the bedcovers and sleeping away quite happily.
God. Did they...? Did Sherlock really catch John watching?
So much for not ruining their friendship. Or, well. They're not friends anyway, are they? Not according to Sherlock.
A flash of anger adds itself to the mix of guilt and shame. Great. John gets up, showers, and decides to leave Sherlock to his own devices for the day.
***
A walk around the village doesn't seem to bring up any leads as to the hound. John could go visit Henry Knight, he supposes, but he's not sure he can stomach seeing him; not after their conversation last night.
No. Right now, John's not sure he wants to talk to anyone.
At this time of the morning, the churchyard seems pretty quiet, so John heads in and decides to check through his notes to see if there was anything he missed the day before.
He's been there for half an hour when Sherlock finds him.
Sherlock walks up the path and, God, John really doesn't want to deal with this right now. He gets up to leave.
"John," Sherlock follows him, "about last night."
Seriously, John doesn't want to have this conversation. He keeps walking. "Sherlock..."
"Wait," says Sherlock. "John. Last night, something happened to me. Something I've not really experienced before."
John tries not to groan. Do they really have to talk about this? Is it too much for them to just pretend that it never happened? "Look," says John, "I didn't mean to..."
"No." Sherlock grabs him by the elbow and John nearly jumps at the touch. "I've never felt like that before, John. Yes, I've felt sexual desire before, but never that urgent. Never that demanding." Sherlock looks him in the eye. "John, I almost felt like I was going to go mad if I didn't have sex; that's why I asked you."
"Oh," says John. "Right. So I was convenient. Good." He turns to go. "Good for you."
"No, wait." Sherlock pulls him back by the elbow. "You don't understand. Last night, I know you were watching. I know you enjoyed it."
And there's the embarrassment again. "Sherlock..."
"I enjoyed it too. Knowing that you were watching was... I don't feel sexual attraction often, but I am attracted to you, John. I have been for a while. And last night I wanted to have sex so much that I decided to act on it."
Oh Christ. John presses his lips together. These really are the death throes of their friendship, aren't they? If they ever had a friendship to begin with. And John feels like he should be more upset about that than he actually is. He turns to go and tries not to wonder exactly how long Sherlock's fancied him.
"John, wait," calls Sherlock after him. "What I said before, I meant it: I don't have friends. I've just got one."
John stops and looks at him.
"And I don't want to do anything to jeopardise that," says Sherlock. "If you think it's best that we keep this platonic, then that's good with me."
John gives a wry smile. Sherlock making a concession; whatever next? It's good though. The best outcome for the both of them.
If only John didn't feel oddly disappointed about it.
***
The rest of the morning passes without incident.
Well, strictly speaking, that's not quite true. But considering how most of Sherlock's cases go, this is pretty par for the course, really.
First, they meet Lestrade and interrogate the pub landlords about a dog that's already been put down. Then they go back to Baskerville to investigate some more.
Oh yes. And John happens to get drugged and experience the most terrifying moment of his life.
***
When Sherlock pulls John out from that cage in the lab, John's so scared can hardly stand.
"It was here, Sherlock!" he says, looking around wildly, trying to find where the hound has gone. "It was here! I saw it! I was wrong!"
"Well, let's not jump to conclusions," says Sherlock with a smug smile.
Good God. John could smack him or shake him or.. or.... Instead, John makes do with staggering a little. "What?"
"There is no hound," says Sherlock. "You have been drugged. We have all been drugged."
Oh hell. John still can't catch his breath. Drugged. His hands are shaking with relief.
"Can you walk?" asks Sherlock.
"Of course I can walk," says John, trying to will some stability back into his limbs. His relief is only growing brighter by the moment. It almost feels as if he...
"Come on, then." Sherlock heads for the door. "It's time to lay this ghost."
"Wait," says John. He stumbles after Sherlock and grabs him by the coat. "Sherlock, wait."
"What is it?" Sherlock frowns at him. "I thought you said you could walk. We need to go talk to..."
"No." John shakes his head. Sherlock's eyes are sharp as he watches him, back straight, skin pale, and why has John even been pretending that he doesn't want this? There's no point in pretending any more. Not after last night. "No, Sherlock. Wait." John swallows and tries to calm his breathing. He clutches Sherlock's coat tighter. "Don't you want to...? First, we could..."
"John," Sherlock tugs his coat free, "what are you talking about? We need to..."
"Wait, Sherlock." John catches Sherlock's hand instead. It's warm and long-fingered and John clutches at it feverishly. "Here," says John. "We can do it here. Come on. I was wrong. Last night, I enjoyed it. I watched you and I enjoyed it and you said you enjoyed it. I was wrong to turn you down. Come on. Let's have sex. Let's find an empty lab and..."
"No, John." Sherlock pulls his hand away. "We don't have time for that."
"Yes we do," John pleads, desperation mounting. God, he's so hard he could... "Yes we do, Sherlock. We can make it quick. Come on." He looks Sherlock in the eye. "I want you, Sherlock. Now. More than anyone."
"But that's exactly it." Sherlock huffs. "It's the drugs, John. You've been drugged."
"You said that already." John frowns at him. Why does Sherlock always have to be so contrary? John's so aroused he can hardly bear it. "Sherlock, we can go ask about the drugs later. First, we can..."
"No." Sherlock's hands land on John's shoulders and he looks John in the eye. "It's the drugs, John. That's what I'm saying. That's why you want to have sex with me. It's because you've been drugged."
"What?" John tries not to stare at Sherlock's mouth and how close it is. "But I've been attracted to you for months, Sherlock. It can't be the drugs when I..."
"It's the drugs that are making you want to have sex right now, at this moment." Sherlock's eyes are hard. "I felt it too, last night, remember? I don't know exactly what drugs they are yet, but I do know that they evoke extreme fear followed by extreme arousal."
"It's..." John tries to get his head around it. "It's the drugs? God. It's the drugs."
"Yes." Sherlock stands back. "Now. We need to go question Dr..."
"But," John closes the distance between them again, "even if it is the drugs doing it, we could still have sex now. I want to and you want..."
"We don't have time, John!" snaps Sherlock. He turns and heads towards the door. "Come on."
"But! Sherlock!" pleads John.
"No," snarls Sherlock over his shoulder, swiping his card and pulling open the door. "If you really can't wait, then you're going to have to go take care of it by yourself." And with that, he's gone.
***
Bloody bastard Sherlock. Why does he have to be so...?
John clutches his free hand desperately on his thigh, his back pushing against the toilet door. Thank God the toilets here are small, enclosed, unisex rooms rather than the normal urinal and cubicle set-up. There's no way John could do this with any sort of quiet or self-restraint.
Fuck it. He bites his lip, breathing heavily. The cock in his fist is slick enough that he can hardly keep hold of it.
Sherlock knows what this is like. He knows exactly how desperate John is right now. So why did Sherlock have to turn him down? For God's sake, their friendship has nothing to do with it, and John could be quick. He swears he could be quick.
Just a quick fuck with Sherlock. That's all he needs. And for a moment, in John's mind, it's not John touching his own cock but Sherlock, his hands deft and warm and...
John's thighs tremble as he comes again, giddily, semen spattering onto the already messy tiled floor.
Fuck it. John lets his head thunk back against the door and sucks in a few deep breaths. Absently, he wipes his hand against his hip.
At least now he can see why Sherlock was so annoyingly worked up last night. John gives a wry smile. What he'd do to have Sherlock that worked up right now.
And there it is, again; the thought of Sherlock spread out and touching himself in their shared room, knowing that John was watching him and enjoying it.
God. How many times has it been now? Before today, John's never been able to start again this quickly. It's obscene.
Just once more, he thinks, licking a wet trail across his salty palm and reaching down to clutch hold of his cock again. Just one more time and then he'll go join Sherlock back on the investigation.
***
It's almost an hour later when John finally leaves the toilet and heads off to Dr Stapleton's lab. He feels weak, and he's aching in odd places, but at least his head is a little clearer now. Well, maybe not entirely clear, but Sherlock's just going to have to make do with John being half-hard while he makes his deductions. Truth be told, it won't be the first time it's happened.
"Project HOUND," Sherlock is saying to Dr Stapleton when John enters the room, "a delerient drug which rendered its users incredibly suggestible. They wanted to use it as an anti-personnel weapon, but they shut it down and hid it away in 1986."
"Because of what it did to the subjects they tested it on," says Dr Stapleton.
"Yes," agrees Sherlock, reading something from a computer screen. "Side-effects they couldn't get rid of. They'd expected the subjects to experience that level of fear but not that level of sexual-arousal. Neurochemistry is difficult; they couldn't trigger the one pathway without hitting a number of others as well."
John clears his throat as he walks over. "Any leads?"
"Oh." Dr Stapleton looks at him. "Are you ok? You're looking a little peaky."
"I'm fine." John shakes his head and coughs again. "I'm absolutely fine."
"John," says Sherlock over his shoulder. "The drug wasn't in the sugar as I'd thought, but we have found this." He gestures at the screen in front of him.
"That's..." John looks at the photograph on the monitor. "That's Dr Frankland."
"Exactly." Sherlock pulls his phone out of his pocket. "Nice of him to give us his number earlier. Let's arrange a little meeting, shall we?"
***
The meeting never gets arranged as planned though. Instead, John and Sherlock find themselves dashing back to Dewer's Hollow to confront Henry Knight, who's scared out of his mind and waving a gun around erratically.
Sherlock explains everything to Henry about his father and Dr Frankland, and together with Lestrade, they're able to calm Henry down.
But then the hound appears and Dr Frankland too, and everything takes a terrifying lurch for the worse.
"It's the fog!" shouts Sherlock. "It's the drug! It's in the fog!"
Drug or no drug, the hound is coming towards them, snarling and vicious, and John shoots it without hesitation.
If only he and Lestrade had managed to kill it then. Tense words are exchanged and it looks like they have Dr Frankland contained, but the hound stirs, and Dr Frankland slips away while they're busy making sure that the beast really is finished this time.
It's too late. By the time they follow Dr Frankland up out of the hollow, he's already made his way into the minefield.
And that's the last they ever see of him.
***
With the ordeal over, the local police force come and detain them all with questions. Thankfully, Sherlock snarls at them until they choose to leave John and Sherlock alone. They'll let John and Sherlock recover from the shock, says the officer in charge, but she promises to question them some more the next day.
Shock. Hah! As if it it's shock that they need to recover from.
John and Sherlock are both wound up and shaking as they drive back across the moor. They've both been scared this evening, more scared than anything. But it's not shock that they're feeling right now; it's not anything like shock.
It seems like repeated doses of the drug only serve to make its affects stronger. The drive back to the pub is excruciating and the trip up the stairs to their room is only worse. Once on the landing, John's hands are trembling so hard he can hardly get the key into the door.
They're on each other as soon as they make it inside, lips on lips, crowded back against the door, bodies pressed desperately together.
Oh God. The door handle jambs awkwardly into John's back but he doesn't care. Sherlock's kissing him, rough and invasive, with teeth as much as tongue, and John's been wanting this all day.
A knee presses itself between John's thighs and he's so hard, so hard.
John pulls back from the kiss, dizzily, to gasp in air. Sherlock is pressed up against him, palms sliding down John's neck, and they're both, infuriatingly, fully clothed.
"You do know..." John attempts to shove Sherlock's coat off his shoulders, grateful when Sherlock steps back to tug it off himself and drop it on the floor. "You do realise that this is the drug, don't you?"
"Of course I do." Sherlock wrenches off his suit jacket too, then he grabs John's wrist and drags him into the room. Together they push the two single beds close until they're wedged up next to each other.
"So..." John can't take off his jacket and his shoes fast enough. He pulls off his cardigan and stands trying to unbutton his shirt but his fingers are trembling too much to be of any use. "So this is the drug making us feel this way. That's why we want to have sex with each other."
"Correct again." Sherlock's having much less trouble with his shirt, and soon he's naked and unzipping John's trousers too, tugging them down his knees. He looks up at John. "Don't have a problem with that, do you?"
"God, no," says John. Sherlock bites at his hip and that sort of pain should not make John this hard. He still hasn't managed all the buttons of his shirt, and is actually glad when Sherlock takes hold of the shirt and rips the last few buttons open. "In fact," gasps John as Sherlock stands and drags the heel of his palm over John's nipple, "I couldn't care less."
"Oh, me neither," agrees Sherlock and kisses him again.
John hooks a leg up around Sherlock's waist, groaning into the kiss as he pulls them closer. Sherlock is just as hard as John, if not more so, and the feel of it is glorious, even if John is too short for them to fit properly together.
With almost all of their weight on him, Sherlock stumbles, reaching out to steady them against the wardrobe. "Bed," he hisses, breaking the kiss. "We need to move this to the bed."
John agrees and they both fumble their way onto the joint mattresses, John pressing Sherlock beneath him and looking down to align their cocks again.
The hot, slow drag of skin when John rocks his hips has him moaning.
Sherlock moans too, his cock just as hard and the head just as exposed as it had been in that photo yesterday, only now he's here with John, his hips rocking upwards and the fingertips of one hand running feverishly over John's scalp.
With his other hand, Sherlock tries, unsuccessfully, to reach over to his bedside table. "Here, John. We should use..."
John looks up and lets Sherlock go for a second. Sherlock scoots over to rummage in the drawer of the bedside table, then comes back quickly with a small bottle.
"This should make things easier." Sherlock squeezes an amount into his palm and passes the bottle to John.
Looking at it, John huffs a laugh. "Conditioner? This is what you were using as lubricant last night?"
"It was all they had in the en-suite bathroom," rumbles Sherlock, lying back down to look between them and suddenly there are deft fingers slicking up the length of John's cock. "It wasn't exactly the time of day when you could go buy lubricant in a village as small as this. I had to make do."
John sucks in a breath because he is close, so close, already, just from this. He squirts some of the conditioner into his own palm and collapses onto the bed next to Sherlock, curling his now slick fingers around the dark length of Sherlock's cock and feeling it twitch in response.
"God," gasps John. "I suppose that means we don't have any condoms either."
"Not unless you brought some yourself, John, no." Sherlock is working John's cock with long, firm strokes, and apparently he either doesn't notice or care that he's bringing John dangerously close to the edge.
John tries to retaliate by stroking Sherlock's cock as fast and as tightly as he can. He can hear his own hand working in the small room, and that doesn't help stifle his growing arousal at all. "Didn't expect I'd be having sex in Devon," John swallows, "so I didn't bring any."
"Shame." Sherlock's breath shudders as he leans across to press his tongue to the base of John's throat. "This is fine, though," he murmurs against the damp skin there. "This'll do."
John bites his lip, because, God, who knew Sherlock's tongue could be so wonderful when he wasn't talking? He tries wrapping a leg around Sherlock's waist again and thrusting against him, using his slick hand to steady himself against Sherlock's back. But while the feel of Sherlock's hips rocking up against him is very nice, it's not quite as good as just reaching down there and clutching Sherlock in his palm.
Sherlock takes a sharp breath as John's thumb slides its way over the head of Sherlock's cock. "God, John," breathes Sherlock, "why haven't we done this before? We've been living together for months."
"I don't know." John slides his other hand between them, reaching down to slick the conditioner over Sherlock's balls. "This might be the drug talking but I think we should do it again. Regularly."
"Yes," Sherlock reciprocates and reaches down to knead John's balls in a very pleasant way, "I'd like that. When we have condoms and lubricant and all the time in the world. I don't ever want to do anything else."
"Except when a case comes along, of course," points out John.
Sherlock scoffs. "Who cares about cases?"
And John laughs. "Ok, Sherlock. That is definitely the drug talking."
"Irrelevant," mumbles Sherlock, and speeds up his hands until John can't laugh any more.
God. God. God. John is never, ever, going to look at Sherlock's wonderful fingers in the same way again. Sherlock has gone back to his long strokes, twisting his hand over the head of John's cock and oh oh. John widens his thighs, trying to give Sherlock's hands as much access as possible. He's so close now that his toes are curling.
Yes, this is far better than wanking in the toilet earlier in the day and even better than watching Sherlock toss himself off last night, because now Sherlock is hot and slick under John's hands, flushed dark and leaking onto the bedcovers in a way that...
John's orgasm catches him by surprise. He shudders and throws his head back and Sherlock's fingers are growing more slick by the second as John pulses out onto them. God, it's... But there's no time to think about it, because Sherlock is still hard, and as soon as John is in control of his body again, he's stroking Sherlock ruthlessly fast until Sherlock is gasping and clutching slick hands onto John's wrists.
"John. John." Sherlock ejaculates onto the bedcovers with a roll of the hips, fingers digging into John's wrists so hard it hurts.
It's only when Sherlock finally lets go that John breaths out fully. Rolling onto his back, John throws an arm up over his forehead and feels the world spin around him.
"That..." Sherlock's voice is thick beside him. "John, that was good."
"Yes," agrees John, swallowing and trying to catch his breath. "Yes it was."
Sherlock inhales. "Want to do it again? Right now?"
John rolls back over to him with a grin. "Yes," says John. "Yes I do."
***
The rest of the night blurs into a haze of touching, of gasping breaths and orgasm after orgasm. There are some things that they can't do without condoms and lube, but it feels as if they give everything else a go at least once.
John has a feeling that there may be some sleep in there as well, but if there is, it's hard to tell where the dreams end and where reality begins; everything is just warm and sticky and glorious.
It's from the last of these not-quite-dreams that John wakes to find sunlight coming in through the curtains and Sherlock stretching languidly on the bed beside him.
"Morning," says John, reaching across to run a hand over the warmth of Sherlock's hip, because that's just the way things go now.
Sherlock stifles a yawn. "Morning." Then he rolls over and onto John without any ceremony, pressing a knee between John's thighs.
John raises his own knee so Sherlock can rub up against it and for a while they just rock against each other like that, arousal slowly building around them.
The urgency from the night before has calmed a little, giving them space to take their time. Sherlock smirks down at John, his face as flushed as it has been for the past few hours, and John's not sure he's ever going to be able to look at that face and not think of sex again.
Oddly, that thought is a rather pleasant one. John grins up at Sherlock and, just because he can, pulls Sherlock's head down and kisses him.
It's a slow, languorous kiss this one; all tongues and sweet, slow heat. Sherlock's cock jumps against John's thigh and John groans into Sherlock's mouth.
Breaking the kiss, Sherlock presses his forehead against John's, his breath hot and moist against John's cheek. "John," he says. "John, I want you on your hands and knees."
They've done this before already, so John doesn't need to ask why. Instead he reaches straight for the bottle of conditioner and realises that there's hardly any left. "We're going to need to get some actual lubricant, Sherlock," he says. "Soon."
Sherlock hums in agreement. "Later."
So John squeezes out almost the last of the conditioner onto his hand and smooths it over the insides of his thighs and up over his balls. Then he passes the bottle to Sherlock and gets up on his knees, keeping his legs tight together and bracing his arms against the headboard.
Behind John, there comes the wet noise of Sherlock coating his cock, and then his hands are on John's hips, his cock pushing in through the slick, tight space made by John's thighs.
The exhale Sherlock gives is full of pleasure. "Oh, John," he murmurs, hips already starting to rock.
John sighs, two parts shaky, one part desperate. Sherlock is hot and hard and John can feel every inch of him, and when John looks down, he can see him too, the dark, moist head of Sherlock's cock pushing out slickly from between his thighs. "Higher," directs John.
Sherlock does as he's told. He leans up closer, pressing himself against John's back to angle his thrusts and, that's it. Now Sherlocks cock is dragging, hot and slick, over the underside of John's balls and oh.
John takes himself in hand and strokes himself in time with Sherlock's thrusts.
It's a slow build-up. Has to be after the amount of times they've come already. But it doesn't matter. For long minutes there's just the slow push and pull of it, the slick drag of flesh with panting breaths, one of Sherlock's arms clenching around John's waist and Sherlock's teeth nipping at John's shoulder blade.
But things get more erratic as they go on. Soon, John's arm starts trembling against the headboard and Sherlock's thrusts begin to falter, his rhythm falling away.
"John." Sherlock presses his face into the nape of John's neck and John hears him take a breath. "John, I'm close."
"Ok." John's not feeling that far off himself. He runs his open palm along his cock. "Go on, then."
So Sherlock pulls back a little. John feels hands rest on his hips and then Sherlock is thrusting faster, jaggedly, his breath shuddering in his throat. And oh. Sherlock's arousal is almost tangible, sweeping up John in the noise and the feel of it, pushing John closer to his own edge, limbs clenching, then suddenly Sherlock is gasping and he's coming between John's thighs.
John hardly has time to contemplate it. Before he can do anything, he finds himself spun around to face Sherlock, a long hand covering his own on his cock and a wet tongue pressing against his pulse point.
"Sherlock," stutters John.
Those warm fingers clench down over John's own, forcing his strokes faster and tighter and so sweet it's almost painful. Lips make their way up over John's jaw, wonderful, wonderful, and John's coming before he even knows it, euphoria rushing through him and over onto their joint hands.
"Oh God," babbles John. "Oh God."
When it's over, Sherlock collapses against him, the weight of his body pushing John back against the headboard and John sinks beneath it, trying to calm his breathing as the remnants of his orgasm flicker away.
He sighs and runs a weary hand over Sherlock's back. "We seriously need to get some lube, Sherlock, if we're going to keep this up."
"Mmm," is Sherlock's only response.
"What time is it, anyway?" asks John as he comes to himself a bit more, looking around the room for some sign of his watch. "The police will want to see us again at some point. I'm hoping the drug will have worn off by then."
"I think that's likely." Sherlock huffs into John's hair. "I'm sure it's left our systems by now."
"What?" John tries, unsuccessfully, to sit up straighter. "Hold on. What do you..."
"It's probably already been metabolised and filtered out." Sherlock sits back, finally, and yawns. "Very efficient things, kidneys."
"Wait," says John. "Wait. No. Already been metabolised? Are you saying..." He looks at Sherlock. "How long have we been drug free?"
"Probably for about half the night." Sherlock pushes his hair out of his eyes. "Do you think they'll make us pay for the room for another night if we don't check out before eleven?"
"Wait." John's breath feels short in his chest. "You mean that for half the night, for half the sex, we weren't even drugged?"
Sherlock raises his eyebrows and gives John smile. "Strange, isn't it? I didn't think I'd enjoy it as much as I did."
"Oh my God. We actually..." And John's laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. "You know," he says, shaking his head. "I think I enjoyed it too."
"Good." Sherlock runs a hand over John's waist. "Want to go for another round? Let's just pay for another night. We'll have time to go and get some lube that way too."
"Never thought you'd be so insatiable." John grins at him. "But what about the police? They'll still want to question us, you know, and Lestrade will probably..." John pauses as a thought hits him. "Actually, Sherlock, last night you said the drug was in the fog. Surely that means Lestrade was affected too?"
Sherlock flops down to lie on the bed and runs a hand over John's thigh. "Yes, I'd think so."
"But didn't..." John looks at him. "But didn't Lestrade say he was going to see that Henry got home safely last night?"
Sherlock flashes John a smile. "He did."
"Oh God." And John's laughing again.